


I've got your name written here in rose tattoo

by Superstition_hockey



Series: Depth on the Bench [17]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Implied previous trauma all around but not discussed, Luc's captaining, Luc's prejudice against Crossfit, Melnyk family feels, bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 08:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: Or: Luc Chantal hockey captains his way through the collected Melnyk family trauma





	I've got your name written here in rose tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to dangercupcake for beta reading and cheerleading and many thanks to july-in-november for helping with the Russian phrases. 
> 
> This fic takes place during the later part of the season in Until the Whistle. Sergei Melnyk's appearance got like.. a couple of lines of mention in that story, but that doesn't mean Luc wasn't paying attention!

Luc’s been lucky, in his hockey career. He’s had really good rooms. Really good groups of guys, all in all. Part of that is luck of the draw, of the _draft_ really, but the secret is, a big part of it isn’t. 

Luc’s had good rooms because he’s _made sure_ he had good rooms. 

Good hockey comes from a good team. A team that loves each other. A team that plays for each other. A team with good chemistry despite differences of opinion or personality or hygiene habits. And Luc takes captaining a room seriously. It’s delicate, tricky work sometimes, reading guys, knowing what they need to bring them in. Some guys—like Socks—need a leader that’s gentle and nurturing. Some guys need respect, and space. Some guys need humor. Some guys don’t need anything more than slaps on the back and a couple of good jobs. Some guys need a swift and thorough attitude realignment and then are surprisingly easy. And some guys…

Well, Sergei Melnyk’s not a ‘dique, but he’s not the first guy who stepped into Luc’s domain with a shit ton of baggage, brittle, armor up, and looking for a fight. Luc’s not too worried about it. 

 

 

 

Luc meets Sergei when he shows up on Luc’s doorstep, luggage-less, in dark jeans and a peacoat, toque pulled low. Luc answers the doorbell, expecting neighborhood kids, and finds someone large and frowning, who looks him over, assessing and unimpressed and finally says, “You Luc Chantal?” in English with a heavy Russian accent. Luc says, “Yeah,” and the man nods, once, satisfied, and them decks him right in the fucking face. 

Luc doesn’t normally fight people off ice so there’s an embarrassingly wasted half-second where Luc’s arms twitch to shake off his non-existent gloves and it’s just the opening this dude needs to have Luc up against the doorframe with his forearm against his throat. Luc is saved from the mortification of having to resort to kicking someone in the balls to be able to breathe by Sveta suddenly standing there, making some sort of dying kind of whimper, and then by a very weepy reunion. Luc manages to get them to move it into the living room and off the front stoop. 

In retrospect, it should have been pretty obvious that the guy was Sveta’s brother—he has her height, her eyes, her unrelenting facial symmetry. But he also has about 100 more pounds of muscle, a hardness around his mouth that Sveta does a better job of hiding, and, also, in Luc’s defense, he didn’t actually _know_ Sveta had a brother. 

Luc goes off to the kitchen to find a steak for his eye and leave them to their reunion. 

 

When introductions are all made, Buddy goes off to the deli to buy zakuski, and Jacks takes a picture of Luc’s black eye on his phone, laughing at him. 

“Who are you sending that to?” Luc grumbles.

“Marts. He always said your luck was gonna run out and you were gonna catch a fist from some girl’s brother.” 

Luc flips him the bird, cheerfully. “How much do you owe him?” 

Jacks turns his phone so Luc can see the screen for Marts’ reply. It just reads, _wheres my 20 bucks bitch_. There is an accompanying Rihanna gif. 

 

Half a bottle of brandy, some ice-cold vodka, and too many blini, dumplings, and vaguely strange fish dishes later, it’s 11 pm, Luc is going to be hungover for practice tomorrow, and Sergey is sitting next to him on the couch. 

Sergeiy pushes another glass of something into Luc’s hand and says, “Drink,” squeezing Luc’s shoulder with an iron grip. Sergei’s face is slightly less cold than it was on the doorstep but it’s still not exactly friendly. 

Luc wants another vodka shot about as much as he wants to be forced to eat more sour cream, but he recognizes a gesture when he’s offered one. Luc drinks and Sergei slaps him on the back, hard, and Luc punches him in the shoulder, just as hard, because it’s not _sorry for punching you in the face because you once made my sister cry and there are a lot of dickbags in the world that have made my sister cry but none of them except you, easily the least dickbaggish of all them, are here with a face readily available for punching_ , but it’s a start, and Luc can work with it. 

 

Coach is a beauty. She lets them sweat their hangovers out without comment and only mentions Luc’s black eye by raising her eyebrows and making a vague hand gesture towards it in query. 

“Sveta’s brother showed up,” Luc offers as explanation

In answer she just laughs and walks away. 

 

 

No one ever bothers, in the house, with making or keeping separate Netflix profiles. That’s probably really frustrating for Netflix’s little algorithm brain, but knowing that Sveta’s had some brother locked away in some fucking high security prison in god knows where makes the _World’s Most Dangerous Prisons_ and _Inside Russia’s Maximum Security Penitentiary System_ documentaries that occasionally would appear in the Netflix Recently Viewed list over the past few years make a lot more sense. He always assumed it was Buddy’s late night viewing habits but apparently it was Sveta. 

There’s a rose tattoo on the side of Sergei’s neck, that according to one of those shows and a Mashable article of questionable validity, means he turned 18 while locked up. 

Sergei definitely doesn’t talk about that, but he tells the story about how he got out. That there’d been no warning, no lead up. That guards had taken him out of his cell, told him to pack his shit (easy, nothing but a stack of letters from his sister and a couple books). That they’d given him the clothes he’s wearing and put him on a taxi with a passport, and a plane ticket to Quebec City. He didn't know where the passport had come from or if it was real.

The food he ate on the plane was the first non-prison food he’d eaten in over 15 years. It was his first time in a commercial airplane. He'd had a bewildering layover in Frankfurt.

Sergeiy tells the story laughing. Sveta frowns.

 

To Luc’s knowledge (and he’s asked the house’s various other residents), Sergeiy hasn’t really left the house in the past week except once—when Sveta had taken him to the mall and then the pharmacy to buy toiletries and clothes and they'd come back tired and grouchy and cross with each other. And a second time, yesterday, when Sergey had said, “I’m take dog for walk,” to Luc, jaw forward like he thought there was going to be a fight about it, and Luc had said, “Bro, she would love that, if you turn left when you walk out on the street, there’s a little park area that she loves to walk around, like a mile down that street, if you feel like going that far.” 

Sergey came back looking tired around the eyes but a little bit looser in the shoulders. He let Mako, tired and happy, off her leash, coiled the leash up in his hand and said, “She’s good dog.” 

“Yeah,” Luc said. “She’s a good dog. Take her out anytime you want. She loves walks.” 

 

The boys all come over to hate watch The Crossfit Games with Luc for his birthday because Jacks is the best husband in the world. Sergey looks pretty overwhelmed by the house full of people but Mako sits on his lap, and Sveta sits close, and he watches, watches them as much as he’s watching the TV. He’s quiet, but Luc can tell he’s assessing the group, watching their interactions. Rosie passes him the popcorn, which Mako gets pretty excited about, and Buddy introduces him to some of the guys, offers bits of conversation translated. Honoré offers him a glass of wine. Once the Games get going on the TV, Luc watches interest and quiet wariness get replaced with _outrage_.

“What the fuck! Это неправильно!” He gasps. 

“Right?” Luc agrees. “These fucking… This entire sport does nothing but teach bad form.” 

“Подтягивания… arms should be tuck in. Why he wiggle, jerk body like that?”

After that, it’s like a dam breaks, and he spends the rest of the night shit-talking the contestants’ form like the rest of them. 

“Have you thought about personal training?” Holly asks Sergei towards the end of the show. “You know your shit, and I bet Svets knows people who are looking for fitness coaches.”

 

 

A couple of nights later, Luc realizes, with a start, the whole _timeline_ of Serhiy’s situation. He sits upright, and Jacks says, “Oh god, what.” 

Luc says, “Sergeiy got locked up when he was 17.” 

“Yeah, it’s… super fucked up.”

“He’s 35,” Luc says. 

“Yeah, Chants, like I said, super fucked up.” 

“No, like… and he went from the prison straight to the airport to here. And he’s only been outside the house here like… twice.”

“Okay, I mean the transition from incarceration to being free can be really difficult, Luc, but honestly it seems like Sergei’s working pretty hard at it.”

“No.” Luc waves that aside. “That’s not... _Jacks_. Jacks.” 

Jacks stares at him. 

Luc is too freaked out to filter it into something that’s not rude, and it just falls out of his mouth, “Jacks, he hasn’t had _pussy_ in _seventeen years_. He might never have. He might be a virgin.” 

“Luc.”

“Jacks, that’s… tragic.” He nods in resolution, already coming up with a plan. “It’s okay. We’ll take him out with us tomorrow night after the game. Bergie’ll pick the bar. We’ll sort him out.” 

“That is a terrible idea.”

“I’m doing it.” 

“I know, I’m just stating that now so that I have grounds to say I told you so later.” 

 

Sergeiy, Yasha, and Sveta go to the game. Whatever it is about Yasha that had made Sveta love him works, apparently, on Sergei as well. Buddy, Sergei calls Nikolai and treats with an aggressively bland lack of opinion, broken only by occasional bouts of sharp-edged jokes traded in Russian and a lot of back slapping.  
Luc gets them passes so that they come back to the locker room afterwards and Luc thinks the box will be quiet and removed enough that hopefully Serhey will be able to relax and enjoy the game.

 

In the locker room, after press, Luc says, “So, boys, we going out tonight?”

“I mean,” Holly says, looking at Luc a little confused, “it’s a Wednesday, you really want to tear it up?” 

“Yeah.” Luc nods, claps Bergie on the shoulder. “So, Bergie, you wanna pick the place tonight?”

Bergie looks up at him. “You… want… me to pick the place?”

“Yeah, bro, of course.” 

Holly looks at Luc. “The last time Bergie picked our bar, you banned him from all future bar choices.” 

The last time Bergie had picked the bar, they’d been in Nashville and wound up somewhere with a lot of blonde women in rhinestone-bedazzled jeans and some awful sound on the speakers that someone told him was called “kenny chesney,” whatever that is. It had been terrible. 

Luc sighs. “We’re taking Sergeiy out.” 

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Bergie hums. “Okay, okay, I can work with that. Um...” He glances at Luc again. “That place downtown or the place near Laval?” 

The place near Laval is crawling with drunk college girls who probably really really want to brag on the internet about sucking a hockey player’s dick. Luc avoids it like the plague. 

Luc thinks about it. Sergei’s a really good looking dude, but he’s also kind of fucking terrifying; his English is better than expected, but still kind of rough; his French is nonexistent; he’s jumpy as fuck; and Luc’s figuring after a 17-year dry spell he’s likely to be kind of… rusty. Plus, if anyone is out on a Wednesday, it’s probably university students.

“Laval,” Luc says firmly.

“I am too old for that place,” G says just as firmly, “and I have a bottle of wine and a wife waiting for me at home.”

Jacks looks up from tying his shoes. He looks at Luc. “Wow,” he says, dry and purposefully obvious, “I just realized how long it’s been since I got to catch up with my beloved former captain.”

Luc rolls his eyes. “Fine, abandon the cause.”

Jacks stands, walks over to Luc, kisses him on the forehead. “I love you and your plan is terrible and I’m spending the night at G’s.” 

Luc kisses him back, on the mouth and Salad throws a sock at him and shouts “FINE! Fifty bucks, Cap!”

G grins at him. ‘Yeah, Cap, pay up.” 

“I can’t believe you're taking my husband and my money,” Luc grumbles. 

 

 

“Chants, you know I love you, man,” Bergie tells him earnestly on the walk out to the car. 

“I’m aware.”

Bergie stares at him expectantly. 

Luc sighs and waves his hand. “My feelings for you are also that of a fond and brotherly nature. _What_ , Bergie?” 

Bergie gapes at him, “Jackson is such a enabling influence on you, you little shit. _Anyway_ , I love you, man, but you are the absolute worst wingman in the _history of time._ ” 

“I am not.” 

“You are. And, look, it’s whatever, but if you actually want Ivan the Terrible to get laid, just let me handle it, okay?” 

Bergie has many questionable traits, but one thing is definitely true: he really is a great wingman. He takes it hilariously serious and shows an eerie amount of insight that’s otherwise completely lacking in… any other aspect of his personality. Luc hums, like he’s not convinced.

“Dude, you know I have a like… a _knack._ ” 

“Okay, fine, you can help,” Luc agrees. 

Bergie wheels around to gape at him. Whoops, Luc agreed too soon. He should have made him work for it more. “Oh, you _asshole,_ ” Bergie admires, “that was your plan all along.” 

Luc grins, wraps his around around Bergie’s shoulder and squeezes his neck, pulls him in so Luc’s grinning into his ear. “An aspect of good leadership is delegation, Tallberg.” 

Bergie wiggles out from under his arm, gives Luc a balltap, and then runs off to the car. Sergey, who’s been walking in line with them, but about ten feet to the left, gives Luc a suspicious glare. 

 

 

 

Bergie has a knack, but he still keeps striking out. Serheiy’s not an idiot, of course, and even if he can probably only understand 25% of the conversation what with the music and the loud and the English, it still takes him less than five seconds after Bergie had come over with a tall willowy brunette and said, “So, Mandi, this is Sergei,” to figure out what was going on. 

Bergie’s got girl number two over there now, a pretty blonde with big blue eyes, petite, but with fucking great legs, and Luc wanders off to get a round of drinks. He gives his order and is waiting when someone grabs his arm, hard, and Luc gets pulled down the hall to a back exit and shoved out the door.

Outside, Sergei shoves him up against the bricks. “Ты в каждой бочке затычка!” he growls, “Не лезь в чужие дела!”

“I’m being a good bro.” Luc shrugs himself out from Sergei’s grasp and steps a few feet away. 

“Maybe I’m not _want._ ” 

Luc rubs at his wrist from where Sergei’d had it. “Uh, ok, sure, lots of people don’t _want_ , but you do.” Luc had seen that Sergei was interested in that blonde, even if he was being a stubborn shit about it. He could see the _want_ all over him. 

Sergei snorts, turns away, pulls a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket. Luc watches him tap the cigarette against the pack, cup his hand around the flame as he lit it, flickering in the dark. 

Luc just… lets the silence stretch out. The alley smells like garbage, and it’s quiet except for echoing sounds from the street up front, and the muted thud of the music from inside. 

The cigarette’s almost gone when finally Sergei says, “I’m _not_ gay.”

“Yeah, bro, no shit,” Luc says, “why do you think we’re at this shitty place.” 

Sergei stabs the butt of the cigarette out against the concrete railing like it personally offended him and says, “No. I’m not gay. But…” he waves his hand, struggling with the language. 

“You can say it in Russian if it’s easier, I’m learning.”

Sergei spits, “I’m not _Russian_ either.” He says it in Russian. And he looks… mad about it. 

And Luc… Okay. Luc’s… able to understand a metaphor sometimes. 

“All right,” Luc says. Because, what the fuck else is there to say. “Do you… I mean if you’re not sure if you remember like… the mechanics. With a girl.” 

For a second Luc thinks he’s going to get punched again and then the fight just drains out of Sergei and he sits down on the step. Luc sits down next to him. “I’m not sure,” Serhei says slowly, “if I’m remember… gentle.” He closes his eyes. “They’re small and I don’t want hurt.”

Luc feels like there is just so fucking much there, so much to say to that and none of it really is…

Like there’s a lot. Like, crisse, that shit needs trained professionals in, like, weekly hour-long sessions, not Luc and a back alley behind a bar. 

 

And yeah, okay, in retrospect, Jacks was probably right and taking Sergiy to a crowded bar and getting him drunk and dealing with his sexual history is probably a terrible idea. But none of that shit is really helpful _immediately_ , and Luc did not take Sergei out to like… heal his soul, or whatever, he took him out to get his dick wet. Luc’s… a practical kind of guy. And he's his captain, sort of, sort of his brother, and definitely not his therapist. 

 

Luc says, “So, like, first of all, some girls _like_ rough. But test it out first, don’t start out with this whole choke-slamming people into walls thing you like so much.” 

Sergey looks away. Luc says, “So, just like, I don’t know. Pull her hair a little or smack her ass, once you’re getting into it. If she _likes that_ , like if you can tell that gets her going, then pause and tell her a word. One word that if she says it, you stop no matter what. Like ‘red,’ or whatever. Tell her the word and then try not to be too rough, but like… you know, do your thing, and like...” Luc waves a vague hand. “If she doesn’t like it, she has her word, she can use it, and you’ll stop, and then you ask her what she didn’t like, and you stop doing that and do something else she likes instead. Tell _her_ to tell you what she likes.” 

Sergei nods, giving Luc a strange look. He looks a little… well Luc’s not really sure. Then Sergei asks, “And if they don’t like, at first part before word, when I pull hair? Already got home, but don’t like rough at all, then what?”

Luc hums. God this situation is so complicated and Luc is trying to condense it down to like… Luc opens his mouth and says, “Then ask her for a blow job.” 

Sergei jerks his head up like he’d been expecting Luc to say something different. But Luc’s all about adaptable, moving plays here, not like… the fucking philosophy of it all. He’s not trying to find Sergei a girlfriend to help him through this bullshit or some idiot idea like that, but, fucking crisse the man ought to be able to get laid if he needs to. Getting all coiled up about it and tense isn’t going to help anything. Luc continues. “I’m serious, just… ask for a blow job. Hopefully she says yes. Then sit on your fucking hands if you think you can't be good about it, let her finish you off and then, when you’re done and mellow, eat her out so she gets hers and then you know, tell her thanks and that you had a nice time, and go on your way.” 

There. Simple, straightforward. Sometimes the most basic plays are still the best. 

Sergei leans his head back, staring up at the sky. It makes his traps bunch and flex, the line of his throat strain. “Ready to get back in the game?” Luc asks, stands up and holds a hand out to Sergei. 

Sergey takes three deep breaths, stands, purposefully ignoring Luc’s hand. Luc slaps him hard on the shoulder. 

 

When they walk back inside, Bergie says, “We all good, Chants?” and Luc leans in close, looping his arm around Bergie’s sweat-soaked shoulders so that he doesn’t have to shout over the music. 

 

Holly and the rest of the guys are leaning against a bar, looking bored. They shift around to make room for Luc and Sergei’s return, push drinks toward them. Rosie claps Sergey on the shoulder, fondly, a little sympathetic. Sergei shifts awkwardly to look over at Bergie, who’s working his way through the dance floor. He says, “Last girl, blonde, she maybe too young.”

“Dude, she was like a year younger than me, _tops._ ” Luc argues.

Sergei gives Luc a significant look, like that’s not actually a point in favor of Luc’s argument, and Luc elbows him in the ribs. “What the fuck ever, dude, you’re the asshole who got thrown in a hole when he was 17. You really want us to find you a lady your own age so you can sit around and talk about taxes or whatever the fuck people in their 30s talk about?” 

“Fuck you, Chants,” Holly chirps companionably, taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, Chants,” Sergeiy echoes, corner of his mouth just barely trying to turn into a smile, “fuck you.” 

“I like him, Cap,” Holly tells Luc. 

 

 

Luc goes home alone. Sergei goes home with a girl with Ariel-red hair, a chest piece of scrolling flowers, and long, pointy, black fingernails. 

Sveta’s pretending not to be waiting up, anxious, when Luc gets home. Luc drinks a glass of water by the sink and watches her come into the kitchen. 

“You never speak Ukrainian,” Luc says. 

Sveta’s face flickers through something. Finally she says. “I… for a long time I didn’t have anyone to speak it with.” She shrugs. “It feels… private.”

“Have you ever gone back?” 

She looks startled.

“To Ukraine, I mean? Like when you were modeling and stuff, did you ever go back to a shoot, or for travel or whatever?” 

“No...” Sveta says slowly. “No, I’ve never gone back. It doesn’t… It doesn’t feel like there’s any going back. A few times… I was invited.” She shrugs again. “Sudak is kind of a… party town. A trendy place to go and dance in foam parties with models. When I was working more, I was invited there a few times. I never went. Anyway, Sudak is not Ukraine anymore. And Donetsk, where Sergeiy and I lived, is not… No one can agree, what Donetsk is.” 

“Sergeiy’s doing fine, Svets,” Luc says, “we didn’t traumatize him.” 

 

The next morning Luc gets up, makes a shake, lets the dog out. Jacks comes home, smelling like G’s body wash and Ryanne’s fabric softener, kisses Luc, long and slow and sweet. Luc bites at the place where his neck joins his shoulder, breathes in the the scent of him before Jacks goes upstairs to change. 

Sergei comes downstairs a few minutes later in workout clothes. He must have come home in the middle of the night. He’s got a hickey on the side of his neck. Luc tosses him a shaker bottle with a protein shake and asks, “How did it go?” 

Sergei doesn’t look at him. He drinks the shake in three long gulps, rinses it out in the sink, and says, “I sit on hands. Go okay.” He’s got his cellphone on an armband with headphones. “Не суй нос в чужие дел.”

Luc slaps him on the ass in congratulations. Sergei grabs his hand, pins it to the counter, keeps it there, “You want keep that hand?” he asks and his tone is menacing but his shoulders are still loose. 

Luc just winks at him, not worried. Rolls his eyes. “Just proud of you, bro.” 

Sergeiy drops his wrist, snorts out a “кокетка” and walks away. 

 

 

 

You’d think, after working so hard to be reunited, Svets and Sergei would be happy to spend as much time together as possible. 

In reality, Sergei calls Sveta “Malina,” and “Malinka,” and “Marynusha,” and Sveta tries not to frown, and Sveta keeps trying to brush his hair out of his eyes and Sergei keeps trying not to flinch, and they just circle around each other and stare and sit three feet apart on the couch, just watching each other, during TV shows, when the other one isn’t looking.

It’s exhausting. 

 

“Do you want us to call you Marina?” Luc asks Svets one morning while Mako’s out sniffing grass and looking for the perfect place to piss, and Svets is like… having whatever morning moment of zen she gets watching the chickens. 

“If I wanted you to call me Marina I would have introduced myself as that.” 

“All right,” Luc says easily. 

Five minutes later, Svets says, “Svetlana Volkov is a citizen of the UK. That’s the name on my passport, on my university diploma, on my bank account, on my national health insurance card.” 

Luc puts his arm over her shoulder. 

“Legally, Marina Melnyk is presumed dead.”

Luc pulls his arm tighter.

“Marina Melynk’s a pretty great artist.” Luc says, fierce, pulling her close. 

Sveta snorts, and her tone is bitter when she snaps back, “The art industry is just another way of whoring,” and tries to pull out from under his arm. 

Luc grabs her shoulder, spins her back around to face him. Her face is angry. “You want to keep that hand?” she hisses. 

Luc has to laugh, just a little. She’s so much like her brother. “That first IUSW gala I went to, that Laura lady told me I wasn’t allowed to use that word. Don’t talk about sex workers that way, Svets.” 

“Don’t you—” 

“Svets. Svets, don’t get all ashamed about something just because you’re nervous about your brother’s opinion. He’s just as nervous about yours.” 

Svets sags into his shoulder. Luc says, “Also, I’m pretty damn fond of those angry daffodils. Quit talking shit about them, Svetochenka. Marina Melnyk’s an amazing artist and I don’t care if you had to suck off Pablo Picasso’s ghost himself to get where you are in the industry. It doesn’t make them any less awesome.” 

Sveta punches him in the shoulder then leans against his side. 

 

Socks comes over to play Mario Kart, as he always does. “Hey,” he says to Sergei, open and smiling, “we’ve met a couple of times, but I don’t think we were really introduced. Paul Sokowski, but everyone calls me Socks.” 

“Socks,” Sergey repeats, dubiously, taking Socks’ hand and shaking it. 

“Hockey names, right?” Socks laughs. “You gonna play some Mario Kart with us?” 

 

 

“Your English might be better than Buddy’s,” Socks says during Bowser’s Castle. Mostly probably to chirp Buddy who kicks at him, lazily. 

“Couple of guys I practice with. Guy named Ivan. One of guards, Dima, sometimes, if no one else around. Practice every day as soon as I move to regular prison, starting getting letters from Marina saying she in England.” 

“Huh,” Socks hums. 

“His English better because doesn’t have to learn from you idiots,” Buddy chirps. “Ivan probably better English than Salad.” 

“Well, that’s not hard to imagine,” Socks laughs, even as Salad throws a baby carrot at them from the armchair. “And he didn’t have to learn French at the same time either.” Painfully fair, as he always is. 

“Oh my god, just because you're playing Princess Peach doesn't mean you have to be such a dick about it,” Mickey whines. 

“Nobody like sore loser, kid,” Sergei chirps. 

Salad gestures like he's jerking off and says, “If that was true, half the country wouldn't be so fucking thirsty for Chants.”

“Keeping talking shit, Salad,” Luc laughs. 

“Love you, Le Volé.” 

 

 

Sergei comes into the kitchen, puts a neat stack of $100 bills on the counter in front of Luc and says, “Rent.” 

Jacks’ eyebrows creep up, from where he’s mashing potatoes, and Luc says, “You know you don’t have to pay rent, Sergei, we’re family.” 

Sergei crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Fucking my sister then break up with her to live with husband doesn’t make family.” 

He stomps off before Luc can respond. Luc takes the bills, counts them out, folds them, and puts him in his wallet. He has absolutely no desire to know where Sergei got a thousand bucks, and he’s not going to ask. 

 

 

Sergei gets a part-time job at Sveta’s gym the next week, training people who are impressed by the whole schtick of the accent and the tattoos and the cell-block D arms. Luc calls his accountant, who doesn't even bother to ask questions, and just sets up an investment account in Sergeiy’s name, moving the $1000 over every month. 

 

Meanwhile, Luc’s hardly one to throw stones when he's living in a big ol’ glass house but Sergei's spending even more time on the punching bag in the gym room, which seems like a lot for a dude who already spends 20 hours a week working at a gym. 

But, then again: glass houses. Luc only knows how much he's in there because he's cycling off his end of season, pre playoffs tension. 

Luc finds a copy of _Teen Vogue_ in the trash by the yoga mats. Sveta’s face looks back at him from the front cover. He turns to page 26. The article title on the page says, “Svetlana Volkov opens up about her work with the International Union of Sex Workers, her past, and how modeling for Burberry saved her.” There's a picture of her at the Burberry event in New York, Jacks on her arm, the two of them talking to a man that the photo caption says is Sir Henry _______, who is evidently in charge of something important with Burberry. 

He’s reading the article when Sergiy walks in. Sergiy pulls it out of his hand, throws it back in the trash and says, “Это не твоя проблема”

Um, obviously it is very very much Luc’s problem. But Luc says, “Hey, you wanna go spar at that MMA gym?”

“Happy for any excuse to get to punch you in face again,” Sergey grins. 

 

For the first time, Jacks actually looks a little concerned. “You’re going to spar,” he says flatly.

Luc shrugs. 

“You’re going to spar with Sergei, the guy who spent 17 years in prison. Luc. It’s almost playoffs.”

“So a great time to practice throwing off the mitts, start kicking up that grit factor for the post-season.” 

Sergei comes down the steps in a hoodie, gym bag slung over his shoulder. Jacks gives him a long look. “Sergei,” he says in his best “I’m wearing an A and my job as the A is to keep the  
captain from making dumbass decisions” voice, “Sergei, Luc has playoffs coming up. He’s not allowed to have head injuries. Please don’t kill him.” 

“Yes, I’m know.” Sergei doesn’t roll his eyes but the action is heavily implied in the tone. “Pretty boy can’t mess up face.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Luc says, because honestly.  
“Pretty boy’s not allowed to mess up his _head,_ ” Jacks says, firm.

“I’ll take easy.” Sergei grins. 

“Like fuck you’re going to take it easy on me, asshole.” 

“I really like his face the way it’s currently arranged,” Jacks calls after them as they get into Luc’s truck and Sergei just laughs. 

 

Sergei wraps his knuckles carefully while Luc stretches out on the mats. 

“Okay,” Sergey begins, “let me see stance.” 

“I know how to fight.”

“Yes,” Sergei agrees, “I’m see Dasker fight on YouTube.” He shrugs. “Not too bad, almost good fight.” 

Two hours later, Sergei and Luc cool down walking on treadmills and Sergei takes a drink of water before he says, “I should have taken care. Should protect her. Instead she's all alone and I’m rotting in hole.”

“Remind me to show you something when we get home,” is all Luc says in response. 

 

When they get home, Luc wants a shower, and a fuck, because fighting always gets his blood up, and then dinner, in that order. But he stops off in the living room first. Turns the TV on and calls Sergei into the room. The Netflix screen loads and Luc points at the _Because you watched Toughest Russian Prisons_ suggested viewing list. 

“You think I watch this shit?” 

Sergei stares between him and the screen. 

“That's your sister’s fucked up TV habits, not mine. You think you're the only stubborn, dumbass Ukrainian with survivor's guilt in this house, blaming themself for shit that’s not their fault? Svets is a badass. Don't waste the time you have with her now by fucking up my punching bags and sulking. Go get a fucking coffee with her and be happy you're both here.”

Sergei sort of stands there looking large and slavic and emotional, and like he wouldn't mind punching Luc in the face. Again. 

Luc gives his shoulder a thump and then a squeeze as he walks by and says, “It smells like Yasha made cassoulet. You should tell Svets dinner will be ready soon.” 

 

Jacks is reading on their bed with the TENS unit going on his legs. Luc kisses him, then strips and heads into the shower. 

Jacks comes into the shower after him, a couple minutes later, and says, “I know what you’re doing, and I get it, but jesus fuck, Luc, please be careful, the type of fighting he’s used to is not hockey fights.” 

“I know,” Luc agres, kissing him. “Hey, can I suck you off?”

Jacks sighs, put upon, but he’s grinning. “Oh, well, if you must.” 

 

 

When playoff hockey starts, Luc doesn’t have time to worry about the whole contingent of eastern block states living in his house and their continued emotional looks at each other over breakfast. 

Sveta and Sergei are still obviously dealing with shit, and then Sergei’s dealing with like… Canada, and French, and trying every single Thai restaurant in the city, because apparently he went 17 years without any Pad Thai and is making up for lost time. 

Somewhere in the rest days between the Sens and the Rangers, Buddy orders takeout from Chanhda and everyone crowds into the kitchen. The lady at Chanhda makes these chicken satay skewers for Luc with a side of lots of extra veggies and Luc’s stoked because they’re always delicious, and Buddy and Yasha are kissing over the soup distribution area and Sergei says something sharp, in Russian that Luc can understand enough of to know it’s _rude_ and not… like, very in line with You Can Play-sponsored ideas about _inclusivity_. It makes Buddy glare and puff up despite the ice-pack taped to his shoulder under his shirt, and Yasha look sheepish, and Luc snaps the towel, hitting Sergei square on the left asscheek and says, “Hey, Seryozha, move that sweet ass to the side, I need my brown rice.” 

Sergei glares at him, but the tension breaks and he tosses Luc’s rice container. “Eyes up here, сука,” gesturing towards his face and the sailing carton of rice flying at Luc’s head, as if Luc can’t keep his eyes off Sergei’s (unremarkable in a room full of hockey players) ass. 

Luc laughs as he catches the carton and says, in an exaggerated kind of leering French, “Awww, sweetheart, don’t tease.” 

It startles a laugh out of Yasha and makes Jacks rolls his eyes and Sergei shakes his head, but he’s doing a bad job of hiding how the corners of his mouth are trying to smile, “You’re—what is word? Incor...incorrigible, кокетка.” 

“You love me,” Luc says firmly, “and don’t talk shit to my rookies, ублюдок.” Luc’s still smiling but Luc knows Sergei can tell how serious he is. There’s a second where Serhey’s face looks just as serious, just a fraction of a head nod, something like respect in his eyes, and then he turns to take his soup into the living room, waving his middle finger over his shoulder. 

“Do I even want to know why my brother called you a flirt?” Sveta asks, because of course she came in at the end of that.

“Is eyelashes,” Buddy answers, unhelpfully. 

Sveta stares at Luc. “ _Why_ are you flirting with my brother and who has been teaching you bad words in Russian.” 

“Temi,” Luc says. “Obviously. And I’m not flirting _for real_. He’s your brother.” Duh. 

Luc loves Svets so much but sometimes it’s really really obvious that she was a fine arts major and never played sports. 

Jacks hands Sveta her order and says, “Luc’s gonna captain any room he’s in. He can’t help it. If it helps just sit back and watch it like a Nature documentary while he and the new guy find their equilibrium.” 

 

 

Sergiy’s pretty much the last thing on Luc’s mind as they head get into the series against the Pens but he seems like he’s doing all right. He has his job at the gym, his days playing Mario Kart with Socks (a little more days during the couple of games Socks was out with an upper body injury), his walks with Mako. Luc thinks he might be hooking up every once in a while with the girl with crayola-red hair, but doesn’t ask about it. He overhears Socks talking to Sergeiy about it once, Socks, cooling down from doing his shoulder rehab exercises, saying, “I don’t know, if she’s wanting something more… I mean, do you feel ready for a real relationship? If you haven’t had the opportunity for anything long-term or serious...”

“Have relationship last six _years_ ,” Sergiy says, sharp, “Longer than you able to vote, парень.”

“Oh,” Socks says, “oh, huh, I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

“Not… boyfriend, not… love. Just.” Sergeiy’s shrugging as Luc comes into the living room. He glances at Luc and then looks back at Socks. “Just some kind of thing.” 

“Did it end because you left and came here?” Socks asks, voice earnest and soft. God, Socks really is a sweet kid. Luc never thought about it, that Sergiy might have left someone behind. 

Serheiy looks annoyed. “He get…” He takes his phone out, types something into google translate, then holds it over to Luc. “How you pronounce?” he asks. 

Luc reads, “Parole.”

“Parole,” Sergiy repeats. “Go home to Novosibirsk couple of years ago, marry nice girl who work at restaurant that write him letters.” 

“That sucks, dude, I’m sorry,” Socks says, rocking to his left to bump shoulders against Sergeiy’s. 

“No,” Sergiy says, “is good for him. What he should do. Happy for him.”

Socks bites his lip. “He’d probably be happy for you, too, then. You should write him a letter. Let him know you’re doing good.” 

Luc’s gonna talk to front office, make sure Socks gets G’s A next year after he retires. 

 

 

Luc and Jacks win a Stanley Cup and the house fills up with family and friends and teammates for the party and the parade. Luc does keg stands with Coach and watches his grandpapa and bonpapa do Jager shots together. Rogue shows up and wraps herself around Luc in a hug. Luc’s showing her over to the beer coolers, and then suddenly she says, “Holy shit, who the fuck is _that_.”

Luc follows her eyes over to where Serhiy’s talking to Salad and G and Jacks’ mom. 

“He looks like he could _break me in half_ ,” Rogue breathes in wonder. 

Luc has to bite his tongue to stifle the immediate No that comes out of his throat. He thinks about Rogue laughing in bed, the open smile on her face, the fearless, reckless way she charges into everything, and Sergei sitting on the step in a back alley saying he didn’t trust himself to be gentle, and doesn’t want them anywhere near each other. Sveta’s brother or not, he wouldn’t be able to forgive him if he hurt Rogue. 

Then he thinks about Sergiy, the uncertainty in his voice sometimes, Rogue’s brashness, and thinks he’d be pretty upset if she hurt Sergeiy, too. 

Luc rifles through the coolers and passes her a Trois Pistoles and gets a Raftman for himself. Says, “That’s Sergiy, Sveta’s brother.” 

“Okayyyyyyy,” Rogue says. She looks at the label on the beer. “Nine percent, you trying to get me drunk, Chants?” 

“You’re the one who wanted to catch up.” Luc pops the top off his own beer, takes a sip. “Just…” Rogue’s an adult and so is Sergei and it’s none of Luc’s fucking business. “Just… be careful, with each other, please,” he says. 

She lifts an eyebrow. “I mean I was gonna go see if I could sit on his dick, bro, not marry him on the spot.”

Luc pulls her into a hug again. Kisses the top of her hair. “Love you, dude,” he says. 

“Hey.” Rogue punches him in the shoulder. “Hey, you’re a Stanley Cup champion.” 

 

 

 

A couple of hours later, Luc’s playing beer pong with G against Crash and Stick, when Sergei wanders over, looking a little dazed and rumpled, Rogue following looking sweaty and satisfied. Rogue hugs Crash on the other side of the table and Luc lets himself ask, “You sit on your hands?” 

“Не твоё дело.” Sergei says, but voice easy, and half a smile on his face. 

He takes a sip of whatever he has in his solo cup. “She’s…” he studies Luc’s face. “Happy girl. Laughs a lot.”

“Yes,” Luc says. 

“Strong,” Sergei adds. 

“Hey, assholes,” Crash calls across the table, “we’re in the middle of a game? Gaze into each other’s eyes on your own time, I’m like two rounds from victory.”

Sergei gives Luc’s arm another squeeze, “Don’t worry, I’m careful.” 

“Sergei,” Socks calls out, he’s laughing and flushed in the face, “come on, have you drank from the Isobel Cup yet? Come get in line with us!”

 

 

The next day before the parade, Luc finds Socks asleep in one direction on the sectional, Sergei and Rogue asleep perpendicular to him, and Bergie and Linea asleep on the other end. 

Luc prods at Socks and Bergie to wake them up, but he thinks Jacks will probably have more success with the coffee smell wafting from the kitchen. 

Sergiy cracks his eyes open, looks at Luc. “These are your agents?” He gestures at Rogue and Socks asleep around him. “Part of corrupting Western agenda?”

“Yeah, Serhiyko," Luc agrees, “my goons’ve got you, you've been assimilated."

“I don't know that word.”

“Means you're one of us now.”

From where her face is buried in Serhey’s shoulder, Rogue starts chanting softly “One of us, one of us, one of us.”

Serhey grunts. He has to disentangle his hand from where his fingers were tangled with Socks’ to poke Luc on the shoulder, where he’s leaning over the sofa. “Should have погоны tattoo" he says “On your shoulder. Epaulettes. Would make good Bratva captain."

“Yeah?” Luc asks. “You gonna get our mark on you, too?" Luc slaps his chest, “right here, hockey-in-law. One of us forever now."

Serhiy grins, just a little. “Hockey-in-law. Funny guy.” 

He looks like he’s going to say something more, but Socks opens his eyes and says “Wait, tattoos! Chants, are we getting Cup tattoos?” 

“Parade first,” Luc says, “then we can worry about tattoos.” 

“Coffee first,” Jacks says coming out of the kitchen, “then parade.” 

 

 

 

Luc and Jacks make plans for the summer. Their schedule is packed—places abroad and back in North America, at least three weddings and, of course, their own Cup parties. Their first trips, though, are to Puerto Escondido to watch Crash compete and then from there to Vegas for the awards. 

Luc’s all packed, and so is Jacks. Temi and Neezy have said they’d meet them in Oaxaca and Luc’s dad is coming, too, to look at birds. Luc carries his luggage downstairs and finds Buddy and Serhiy standing around the kitchen, talking. Buddy’s in sweatpants but Sergey’s wearing nicer jeans and a polo shirt. 

“You all dressed up just to drop us off at the airport?” Luc asks Sergiy. 

Serhiy grins. “Sveta taking me to Miyagi Bistro downtown after we drop you off, she says they have Thai poutine. Have to try.” 

Sveta comes downstairs and she’s dressed up a little, too, keys in hand, the rose tattoo on her neck still fresh and newly healing. “Ready to go?” 

Buddy gives Jacks a hug, and then Luc. “We’ll talk more about Moscow and Cup day,” he says as Luc hugs him, “I want you to come.” 

“We’ll make it work somehow,” Luc agrees. “See you in Vegas.” 

“See you in Vegas.” Buddy agrees, and squeezes before letting Luc go. 

 

“I’m going to miss your dog.” Serhiy says as Mako hops into the backseat. 

Luc climbs in the backseat after her and says, “Uh-huh, she’s going to miss you too. You ever thought about adopting one yourself?”

“Yes, maybe. We’ll see.” 

“Don’t let him fool you,” Sveta says as she starts the car. “He’s keeps looking at the list of adoptable dogs on the SPA website. 

“So what you’re saying is that when we get back in August, there’ll be a new cute dog and no new goats, right?” Jacks leans forward to poke Sergei in the shoulder when he asks. 

“Ha! Can promise no new goats, for sure. I make Yasha promise.” 

“Good man.” Jacks pats his shoulder. 

 

Luc tells them they can just drop them off at departures but Svets insists on parking and walking with them to the security line. 

Luc gives Sveta a big hug and says, “You’re still coming to Vegas, too, right?” 

She shrugs, “It will be fun to confuse press. And I already have my dress, so I guess I will find time in my busy schedule.” 

“Ha ha,” Luc says and kisses her cheek. 

Serhiy picks Mako up and kisses her head and ears before she gets in her carrier. He and Jacks shake, pulling each other into one armed hugs, and then Serhiy stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking down at Mako and then back up to Luc. “Okay,” he says, “I guess I miss you too.” 

“Fuck you.” Luc laughs and pulls him into a hug. 

Serhiy squeezes his shoulder as they pull apart and says, “In your dreams, Кокетка. Take care of pretty face while you gone.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you care about such things: 
> 
> Serhiy has a lot of tattoos, all of which he got while in prison, of course, but besides the rose tattoo, none are the “traditional” Russian prison/gang tattoos like you see in movies, or like...I don’t know… old Law and Order episodes or whatever, that have faded and lost some of their prevalence etc in recent decades, from what I've read. Serhiy has no involvement in organized crime, went to prison in 2014+ so way after the 80s/90s, and straddles some line between criminal/political prisoner, so they wouldn’t have been relevant to him anyway. He wouldn’t have been able to get any tattoos at all in the first few places he was in -- too isolated, too strictly guarded, and alone most of the time. It was only in later years, after Sveta’s efforts had him moved to lower security places, that he had more socialization, more time spent with other inmates, etc. 
> 
> Luc’s reference to “hockey-in-law” is a play on “thief-in-law”, which is what Serhiy was referencing when he joked about Luc getting those sort of prison gang tattoos (the epaulets on the shoulders marking an officer in organized crime, like a captain or lieutenant).
> 
> There are … Lots and lots of people who live in the area where Sveta and Sergei grew up who consider themselves Russians not Ukrainians (thus the whole conflict I guess). Sveta’s family just wasn’t one of those. I don’t presume to have any in depth knowledge of that situation, and, more importantly, neither does Luc. 
> 
> I was thinking this fic was finally going to be the one where talking about Luc and Jacks getting tattoos (Olympic tattoos? Stanley Cup tattoos, come on). But, ironically, even though I was completely sure I’d finally get to work that in, it got edited out because it just didn’t fit. Maybe I’ll just have to do a little coda that’s everyone at the tattoo shop. 
> 
> And finally, yes Serhiy’s name was spelled like four (five?) different ways throughout the whole thing. It started as an accident and then I decided to keep doing it on purpose. In my (and his) defense, this is how you actually spell his name: Сергій.
> 
>  
> 
> Это неправильно! - that’s wrong!  
> Подтягивания- pull-ups  
> Ты в каждой бочке затычка! - Calling Luc meddlesome, basically, literally "you are a plug in every barrel"  
> Не лезь в чужие дела - Don’t put yourself in other people’s affairs  
> Не суй нос в чужие дела - don’t put your nose in other people’s business  
> Кокетка - flirt  
> Это не твоя проблема - This is not your problem  
> Сука - bitch  
> Ублюдок - bastard  
> парень - kid  
> Не твоё дело - none of your business  
> Погоны - epaulettes 
> 
>  
> 
> come find me at Superstitionhockey on tumblr!


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